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WHI 

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flDafce Zby lla? flDine 



AND OTHER POEMS 



BY • 




OFC* 

^COFYR.. 

NoV 20 1886 '^ * 



Hew HJorfc 



& 



WHITE, STOKES, & ALLEN 

1886 






Copyright, 1886, 
By WHITE, STOKES, & ALLEN. 









CONTENTS 



TAGS 



Make Thy Way Mine I 

While We May 3 

A Year Ago 6 

Perfection in Division 9 

A Finished Chapter 12 

The Benediction of Light 15 

My Cross His Crown 17 

The Dual Struggle 19 

Mysticism 21 

As God Leads 24 

Submission 27 

Our Legacies 29 

Italy 31 

Love's Prayer . 34 

Jesus Crucified 36 

The Silver Cross 37 



iv CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Songs with Words 39 

Solicitude 42 

Our Haunted Way 44 

A Child's Thought 46 

Trust 48 

Torrigiano to his Statue of Christ . . . .50 

Influences 53 

I Know in Whom I Have Believed . . .55 

Autumn's Tired Flowers . , . . . .57 

The Chosen One 59 

His to Lay Aside 61 

Blighted 63 

" Tysie'' 65 

Sacrifice 67 

Footprints 69 

The Slaughtered Brave 71 

Patience with the Love 73 

His Thoughts 75 

Not by Mistake 77 

Unwritten Language 79 

What Can it Matter 81 

A Child's Plea for a Little Life . . . .82 
Hour by Hour , 84 



CONTENTS 



PAGB 

The Skein We Wind 87 

Tomorrow's News . 89 

Recompense 91 

Why Mother is Proud 94 

Perhaps 96 

Could Love Rebel ? 99 

Let Them be Glad 102 



MAKE THY WAY MINE. 

FATHER, hold thou my hands ; the way is steep, 
I cannot see the path my feet must keep ; 
I cannot tell, so dark the tangled way, 

Where next to step. Oh, stay ; 
Come close ; take both my hands in thine ; 

Make thy way mine. 
Lead me. I may not stay : 
I must move on, but oh, the way ! 

I must be brave and go ; 
Step forward in the dark nor know 
If I shall reach the goal at all — 
If I shall fall 
Take thou my hand : 
Take it ! Thou knowest best 






How I should go, and all the rest ; 
1 cannot, cannot sec ; 
DM ; I hold my hands to thee ; 
I own no will but thine ; 
Make thy way mine. 



T 



WHILE WE MAY. 

H E hands are such dear hands ; 
They are so fulL They turn at our demands 
So often. They reach out, 

ught about, 
j many time* They do 
very many things for me, for you ; 
If their fond wills mista- 
fe may well bend, not break. 



They are sir. :' rail lips 

That speak to us. Pray, if love H 

Them of discretion many tirr 
Or if they spea'-: w, or quick, such crimes 

We may pass by, for we may see 
Days not far off when those small words may be 
Held not as slow. t out of place, but dear 

Because the lips are no more here. 



WHILE WE MA Y 



They are such dear familiar feet that go 
Along the path with ours ; feet fast, or slow ; 
And trying to keep pace, if they mista 
Or tread upon some flower that we would take 
Upon our breast, or bruise some reed, 
Or crush poor Hope until it bleed, 
We may be mute, 
Not turning to impute 
Grave fault, for they and we 
Have such a little way to go, can be 
Together such a little while along the way, 
We will be patient while we may. 

So many little faults we find : 

We see them for not blind 
Is love ; we see them, but if you and I 
Perhaps remember them some by and by 

They will not be 
Faults then — grave faults — to you and me, 
But just odd ways, mistakes, or even less, 

Remembrances to bless. 



WHILE IVE MAY. 



Days change so many things — yes, hours— 
We see so differently in suns and showers ; 

Mistaken words to-night 
May be so cherished by to-morrow's light ! 
We may be patient, for we know 
There's such a little way to go. 



A YEAR AGO. 

I WAS so rich a you . 
Thai every day 
A little child looked up to me 

Amid its play. 
- 50 very rich because 
The child was mine. 
I did not think he was but lent 
A little time. 

I dreamed for him bright dreams. 

And he ? 
The castles that he built 

Were all for me. 
I cannot tell you, if I try, 

How golden bright 
The head upon my pi. 

Every night. 



A YEAR 



How sweet this child oi 
Or half how rich I : 
Horn way ridi I "•->-, 

And now I H . n the path — 

Is*. •': — 

• poor I 

That ever sh 
Cndd anki bm ridi. But i 

And looking down 
On trodden hope, as -.rimson wind-flower 

Turned to b 
I see that, though I am 

For ..l-:e, 

I may be glad that God saw fit 

His d 



A YEAR AGO. 



I may be glad, because 

I loved him so, 
That God should do so kind a thing, 

And let him go, 
Before the world's breath ever 

Swept his face — 
What could my love have done 

To grant such grace ? 
What could my love have done ? 

I could not keep 
My child, with all my love, so safe 

But he would weep. 



PERFECTION IN DIVISK 

SOME flowers bear violet on their bosoms, and 
■M blue ; 

Some love a hue 
re tender, and you know, 
Some are as white as snow. 
If all the colors slept upon one breast 
Our eyes would ask for rest. 

Some birds have gifts of song ; 
Others, of wings so strong 
They rule as kings : some, going by, 
Flush nature's heart with crimson dy;, 
Or blue, or gold ; and some 
With just a chirp of gladness come. 
If all birds' wings were strong, or red, 
Or all birds' songs said 
Each to each the same on hills, through vales below 
There would be tears I know. 



PERFECTION IN DIVISION. 



Some human lips part singing ; some with cries ; 
Some spirits weep or smile from out their eyes ; 
Some eyes are blind. 
Some hands are strong to loose or bind, 

And some but cling : 
Some spirits are so strong of wing, 
With such a sweet control 
Reaching from soul to soul ; 
And others never try 
To rise and fly. 
If all lips sung, or cried, 
Or wings of spirits tried 
The same broad flight, 
Lips would fade white. 

Gifts are divided. Some hands hold 

A weight of gold ; 

Some just a child ; 
Some, acres where the sun hath smiled. 

God never made 
A hand without a gift— though gifts do fade- 



PERFECTION IN DIVISION. 



And some, so many hold that they forget 
The gift, God-set, 
High toward the Throne, and so 
Bend down too low. 



A FINISHED CHAPTER. 

ONE chapter of my life is ended ; 
One chapter cut so short ; extended 
Such a little way, so brief : 
And I must put it by ; turning a new white leaf, 
So white, so marked with change, 
So different from the last ; so strange ; 
Without a line to guess the reading uy : 
A page as yet stained but with tears that cry 
B^ood-red to heaven, and ask what I shall write 
First on the white. 

The last sweet chapter, though so new, so strange 
At the beginning, came with change 
All tremulous with added life 
And whisperings of new-created lips ripe 
With tlieir benediction. Life added unto life, complete 
In benison of God, sung a ne -* osalm along the white, 
new leaf, replete 



A FINISHED CHAPTER. 13 

With utterances the tenderest of Time's lips, 
And all the writing ran so smoothly in straight lines, 
with slips 
But here and there, to show imperfect still 
The sweetest chapter of the whole, until 
The last, 

Which comes when all the rest is past. 
So full of benediction's breath, that other page, 
One might half guess what would be written and 

assuage 
The human yearning passionate, strong, strong as 
death, 

In its soft breath. 
But cut apart and laid in separate place 
That little chapter, and an angel face, 
New-crowned, looks in surprise, 
With rapture in its eyes, 
Along God's light. 
My new page is so white ! 
I i is so strange, so new, 



14 A FINISHED CHAPTER. 

With nothing to be guessed about what I can do 
To make it mine ; yet I must do, must go, must write ; 
Too weak to do or think aright ; 
But God, who closed so soon the last fond chapter, 
Will show me soon what cometh after, 
And help me choose, 
And tell me just the words to use. 



THE BENEDICTION OF LIGHT. 

When I grow weak 
With beating human wings against infinitude, and seek 
From out the opened heavens, some new, strange sign, 

Some flame omnipotent to shine 
Upon my faith ; when I would reach too high — 

Beating my sin-clipped wings — and cry 

To see an opened heaven ; a spirit race ; 

My own bright angel with a face 

Lifted to God ; when I am weak, 

Lead me, too mute to speak, 

Where I may see — tender as thoughts of God — 

The light along the West, trod 

By the crescent and the one lone star, 

Which did not sin-stain mar, 
Might tremble with the wings of angels, and reach out 
To upper thrones. Could faith then turn about 



16 THE BENEDICTION OF LIGHT. 

And ask a sign ? — look on infinitude 
Bowing to meet the finite ; from along the multitude 
Of spheres, just out of sight, 
Feel the strong breath of God, and ask for light 
God has held back ? The hand 
That swung out stars, within an angel band, 
Shall keep 
My angel till I fall asleep. 



MY CROSS HIS CROWN. 

MY cross ? Oh, can I take 
That cross to carry ? did He break 
My idol, and instead 
Lay this across the pathway I must tread ? 
How can I lift it up, so great — 
How can I lift so great a weight ? 
How can I rise and go 
Bent with this cross along the way ? I know 

He chose for me Himself and tried 
Its weight with tender hands ; was satisfied ; 
Laid it just here — and I ? 
I have not frowned. I did not cry 
To have it lifted ; would not change 
The cross he chose for me, but strange 
And terrible it looks !— I see— 



18 MY CROSS HIS CROWN. 



Looking so hard— a light about the cross God chose for 

me : 
Looking so hard, I see my own child's face ; 
I see a crown just in my cross' place ; 

Looking so hard — I see 
A cross and crown. God gave to me 
The cross, brought it and laid it down, 
But, oh, my cross is but my angel's crown J 



THE DUAL STRUGGLE. 



I 



F I should say 
I will not strive to-day ; 
Will not step on a pace, 
But stand right here, looking upon the face 
Of all my woe ; 
Refuse to go, 
And let my hands drop 
Where they will ; crouching down close to Grief, 
Would it yet be relief ? 
Still, when I, by resolve, 
Prayed out and sought out, solve 
Grief's problem, reaching out a hand 
To put it back : leave it to stand 
One step behind, while I 
Dare, in my sorrow's passion, turn and try 



THE DUAL STRUGGLE. 



To look not on its face, 

What grace 
Comes to me so ? Must Grief 
Be left upon the wayside ? For relief 

Must Grief stand back ? Is love — 

Breath of the God above — 

So strong, so weak, 

That when its voice is hushed Grief must not speak ? 

With dual struggle day by day, 

I wrestle to leave Grief, to move away, 

Yet am not willing even to take 

A single step, so, fighting, I must break 

My will in two strong places, asking God to give 

Not only help to make me live 

At all, but so 

To help that I can will to live and go. 



MYSTICISM. 

THERE were so many, many things 
On every side, 
So many, many, wondrous things, 

Bright, glorified, 
That we could see them, he and I, 

The whole day long — 
Looking together always 
Light was strong. 

Light was so strong six months ago, 

That when at play. 
He came and stood with me to look, 

Day after day, 
And smiled into my face — this child — 

And lifted up 



MYSTICISM. 



His eyes from moss-urns at his feet, 

Or fringed cup, 
To look away, above, across 

Into the light — 
To look so far away — I thought 

The world was bright. 
And now, should 1 be asked to-day 

If God, though no less good, 
Had taken the brightness quite away, 

And understood, 
Better than we, our earnest needs, 

And made the light to fade 
From human hearts, and from the sun 

And darkness made, 
I could but say, looking alone 

I cannot see ; 
Looking alone, though God be good 

To him, to me, 
And gave him brighter things so soon — 

I cannot tell 
Why hands reach out, why lips can smile ! 



MYSTICISM. a 3 



Though all be well, 
God keeping us, the world is dark. 

And I but lay 
My heart against the darkness 

And await the day. 



AS GOD LEADS. 

HOW can I go ; 
How rise, and take the path and know 
I have no hand to hold, no face 
To meet me on the way at any place ! 
I stand 
Just where I held his hand ; 

I took — 
Just here the wind hath shook 
His gold curls, and his feet 
This far came with me : then let me but repeat, 
Just standing where I am, 
All that his lips said — sacred as a psalm — 
While we were moving on, before I knew 

His footsteps would stop him. So new 
The way looks on beyond ; if I could stay, 
If I could but live over day by day 



AS GOD LEADS. 



The sweet gone-by ; if I could be 
Found waiting where he left me — but I see 
A step ahead which I must take. 
What that my heart should break ; 

What that I cry— 
Or am too mute to lift on high 
A cry for pity — I must go ; 
Reach out for other hands ; know 
The bleak places of new hills ; be strong : 
Carry my burden all along 
The uphill road ; leave 
All our footprints in the path that in and out, weave 
On together until now ; must take 
The new step on alone, and make 
My eyes lift to the sun, and look 
At purple hill, and throbbing brook, 

And make 
My hands reach out again to take 
Flowers, that will grow against my feet and keep 
Reminding me I have no other hands to put them in ! 
Steep 



26 AS GOD LEADS. 



Be the way or level, can it matter now ? 
If I must leave his footprints does it matter how ? 
If 1 must go ; walk just the same, 
Without his love-lips murmuring my name, 

I only know 
It cannot matter much the way I go 
So that the path leads high, 
Leads closer, every day, toward the sky ; 
Leads, as God wills, toward the meeting-place 
Where I shall look upon my angel's face. 



w 



SUBMISSION. 

HAT can I do? 
Oh, little Life, in you 
I lived, and now, how can I care 
To live at all ? Despair 
Would take me by the hand, but shall I go ? 
If it should take me by the hand, and you should know, 
Would you be glad ? or, would you rather see 

A nobler following after thee ? 
For thy sweet sake I put the hand aside, 
I will be brave, my Glorified ; 
Lift up my face and go ; 
Look out upon the light, and up, and so, 
Leaving despair, 
Push on to nobler things to do and dare, 
For thy sweet sake— and His, 
Whose glory is 



28 SUBMISSION. 



Revealed to thee so soon — and be 
What your bright thought could wish for me — 

A pure, true life 
Brought nearer heaven, and thee, by each day's strife ; 
Love crystalized to deeds ; remembrance purified 
By keeping close to Him, and close to thee, my 

Glorified. 



OUR LEGACIES. 

IF some hand is quite still 
That we have loved, and kept in ours until 
It grew so cold ; 
If all it held hath fallen from its hold, 
And it can do 
No more, perhaps there are a few 
Small threads that it held fast 
Until the last, 
That we can gather up and weave along, 
With patience strong 
In love. If we can take 
But some wee, single thread, for love's sweet sake, 
And keep it beaten on the wheel 
A trifle longer ; feel 
The same thread in our hands to add unto and hold, 
Until our own grow cold, 



30 OUR LEGACIES. 



We may take heart above the wheel and spin 

With weak hands that begin 
Where those left-off, and going on 

Grow strong. 
If we bend close to see 
Just what the threads may be 
Which filled the quiet hands, 

Perhaps some strands 
So golden, or so strong may lie there still 
That we our empty hands may fill, 

And even yet 
Smile though our eyes be wet. 



ITALY. 

VICTOR EMMANUEL is King of Rome ! 
Italy lives — is free. There shone 

A quivering light on her breast of snow, 

As she lay in her sleep long ago, 
And she lightly stirred while her breath went forth 
From Apennine to Alp of the North. 
But the swathes which bound her were netted strong 
By the sinewy fingers that bound them on — 
It was only a breath she had flung afar, 
She was Italy dead, a shrouded star. 
When on other shores, with the centuries, trod 
France, Lombard, Goth, from ashes and blood 
Noble empire came forth with giant tread 
Grander, bv far, than the step of the dead. 
But Italy, land of eloquence, art, 
Lay unmoved, cold, still, with her frozen heart ; 



32 ITALY. 

Her name unforgotten ; too great in the past 
To be lost, yet aside with obloquy cast. 

While she lay in her sleep, 
Proud monarchies sweep 
The hem of their purple o\ r er her face, 
And mar, as they trample, the lines of its grace, 
And a Hierarchy springs from her bosom whose hands 

Sprinkle with blood, rivet her bands, 
Plant on her breast the weighty tiaras — 
Sprinkle with blood of Dante, Rienzes. 
She awoke, and from Piedmont, from valley and hill, 
Swordsmen sprung into birth, a clarion shrill 
From glacier to glacier rung forth, and with blood, 
War-legions moved on through the purple flood. 

Neapolitan, Tuscan, the down-trodden Lombard, 
With grasp, and with nerve drew the sword from its 

scabbard, 
And France, with her banners in glory unfurled, 
Over Italy's bosom held her shield to the world. 

She had stirred, was freed, was aroused — but in 
part— 



VICTOR EMMANUEL. 33 

The shroud yet tightened above her heart ; 
She lived, but the cords which bound her fast 
Were kept by the shield and sword of France. 

Now Victor Emmanuel is King of Rome ! 

Italy has passed to her ancient throne. 
There is rapture which swells on her haunted shore, 
There are voices — their burden is, evermore — 

Italy lives, she reigns, is free, 

Viva Roma, capitale d' Italia ! 



LOVE'S PRAYER. 

LOVE'S heart was dumb in asking. Could it 
choose, 
And so refuse 
The boon of having God choose for it, knowing best 

Just what to send at Love's behest ? 
So dumb before God's throne that no words came, 
Calling some wish by name — 
When it would pray; 
No words but, — " Keep him day by day; 
And grant this last, 
That he may find thy heaven when days are past;" 
So mute it could not plead, 
But agonize and bleed, 
While on its breast 
The child-face, night by night, smiled in its rest 
And slept. Could Love do more ? 
Could it ask better grace ? implore 
Some earthborn glory — ask instead 
For genius, power; for honor on the golden head ? 



LOVE'S PRA YER. 35 



This boon alone, a place in Heaven, and all things else 
as best, 

Leaving to God the rest; 
This was the prayer, day following day, 
With such a tender hope that God would find a way 
To make a long bright pathway for the feet, 
With all earth's sweetest utterances complete, 
Before he gave the last, best gift, 
For human life must drift 
In human channels somewhat, human love is strong. 
But when the prayer was granted, and along 

The free, glad light, 
God sent to call his angel to a way more bright, 
Knowing quite best 
That this was sweetest of behest, 
Love's heart was speechless, holding up 
Such empty hands — to God held up — 
Such empty hands! So strong was Love 
It dared not lift a wish above; 
It dared not choose — Oh, Love is strong 
That dares not risk to choose the wrong ! 



JESUS CRUCIFIED. 

JESUS, the Crucified ; Jesus, the Crucified. 
What are shades of eventide, 
What the midnight, if beside 
Jesus, Jesus crucified ? 

What that lives must touch and part; 
Phantoms tread the echoing heart; 
Sorrows come in every way — 
Sorrows new with every day — 
What it all, if Jesus be, 
Jesus crucified for me ? 
Quivering heart; oh, quivering heart, 
Yearning, longing soul apart, 
What is anguish ?— at thy side 
Is Jesus — Jesus crucified. 



THE SILVER CROSS. 

SH E laid in his hand a tangled thorn 
Crimsoned with berries, mountain-born; 
She had nothing else, though his locks were white, 
Nothing to give on the Christmas night: 
But he smiled and laid on her braids of gold 
The fingers, shriveled and spare and old, 
And was gone; but a cross of silver light 
Lay where he stood on the snow-drifts white. 

A morsel of porridge; the hands were small 
That divided the porridge, then gave it all. 
But he smiled, and bowed his locks of white — 
Frosted with snow of the Christmas night — 
Smiled and bent to the child-face cold, 
Touched it with fingers shriveled and old, 
And was gone; but a cross of silver light 
Lay where he stood on the drifts of white. 



38 THE SILVER CROSS. 

Faces peered from cottage and hall 
Out on the midnight, great and small, 
Out on a pilgrim, shriveled and old, 
Pleading for alms; but who could have told 
That the little Christ on each threshold stood — 
In strange disguise, for evil or good, 
That the angels bearing His gifts might know 
The blessed by the cross in the drifted snow. 



SONGS WITH WORDS. 

IF birds but sung, and kept 
Their small nests in the grass, and swept 
Their pretty wings beneath the eaves, 
Amid the leaves, 
And higher toward the sun; 
If on the beaten rocks 
The flocks 
Of white wings swung 
Without a language, and the lifted forests rung 
With voices without words, 
Nature had loved the birds. 
But when, along the hush 
Of solitude, the thrush 
Tells of its love, or cries 
Across the silence to its mate of some surprise, 
When voices go from rock to rock, 
Seeming to mock 



40 S02VGS WITH WORDS. 

The quiet of the air, with harsh, hard call, 
Or tenderer voices rise and fall 
With some pathetic cry, 
Songs with words unknown to us drift by, 
Of voices chattering of nooks to find 
Where nests may swing — soft nests be twined — 
It would be strange 
If nature, in exchange 
For voices all her soul to move, 
Gave no more love. 
The air is full of heart-throbs breathed in song, 
Of hopes and fears; perhaps of some grave wrong, 
Of patient effort and content ; 
Of sentiment 
As true , as real 
Within its little way as though a larger deal 
Governed the stakes ; of little conflicts 
And decisions ; of discussions ; interdicts 
On winged peoples; selections and rejections ; 
Of grave reflections 
Upon times and seasons, 
Of migratory reasons ; 



SONGS WITH WORDS. 41 

Of ways and means ; of governmental factions ; 
Of distractions ; 

Of superior forces, power and cunning ; 
Of the seeking and the shunning, 
And the keeping and the giving ; 
Of the dying and the living ; 

Of the loving. 
Solitudes have many voices ; 
Song-birds sing in making choices, 
Sing in all the words they utter, 
Sing in chattering to each other ; 
Sing in wooing, willing, flying, 
Sing in fearing and in dying, 
Speak — in diction known to birds — 
In words. 



SOLICITUDE. 

A TINY dory just upon the shore ; 
A little new, white sail, and on before 
The beckoning sea. 
Around, the morning light upon the golden sand; 
The dreamy waters; ships far off from land; 
A scrap of idle foam beneath the lea. 

A little pure white sail, so pure, so white ! — 
Flushed roseate in the early light; 
A whispering tide: 
Beyond, the rocks lie deep: 
Beyond, the wierd winds sweep: 
The sea is wide. 

If, on the other side, across the sea, 
Day burns within the harbor of immensity, 
And all is safe 



SOLICITUDE. 43 



Between this shore and that, winds sweep: 
Night shudders, crouching down from deep to deep, 
Torn sails beseech relief. 

If we turn white': if we would pray, 
Though but the breath of early day 
Touches the new, white sail ; 
Be still, for each new day 
Flushes to roseate hue all ships that drift away, 
Though ships be frail. 

The sail is white ; a pure, fair soul 
With loosened wings bound for a goal ; 

When all is night, 
When treacherous seas deceive, 
When death yields no reprieve, 
Will the white wings be white ? 



OUR HAUNTED WAY. 

WE cannot always keep 
The hands of friends, nor even reap 
Our grain beside them, or walk near 
That we may speak across, from path to path, and hear 
The words that they would say : we do not see 
The ways they go, nor be 
Quite sure if we would know 
Should they exchange this path below 
For one more bright, or how, or where. 
Just now and then 
We look into their eyes: from place to place 
We meet and look upon a face 
That we have carried, as we take 
The dream of some sweet flower which bloomed to 
make 

A pathway bright, and so 
W T e carry onward as we go, 
The influence cf so many hours, 



OUR HAUNTED WAY. 45 



Of spirits that draw close to ours, 
Spirits that draw close and go, 
To come no more for aught we know, 
Yet leave a vision where they stood — 
A dream so bright, so strong, so good— 
That we are richer every day 
Because we tread a haunted way. 



A CHILD'S THOUGHT. 

A HAND 
Came, holding to my face a violet cup 
Half opened : " This came up 
Because it is the day that Jesus rose," 
The sweet lips said, and 1 suppose 
No violet to my face 
Will lift its purple breast in any place 
But I shall hear the words, and see 
The glad eyes smiling up at me 

Because one flower was found — 
Just one above the hardened ground — 
On Easter day. It was a face so bright — 
A boy's face, filled with light— 
This Easter tide 
Will find the sweet face glorified. 



A CHILD'S THOUGHT. 47 

And, though for Jesus' sake, some flower may blow, 
No face with deeper love, I know, 
Will smile because its leaves unclose 
" The day when Jesus rose." 



TRUST. 

WE do not see. 
It was not meant for you and me 
To look beyond the near, dim West 
Dividing the present from the rest — 
From the to-come. 
Just one by one 
The steps we take ; 
Just one by one the glories wake, 
Or tempests beat. We go 
Nearer and nearer to the setting sun, and know 
But this, Whatever is, is best — 
Sweetest of words confessed 
By love's warm breath 
In life or death. 
We go 
Led by His shielding hand and know 
He will not make, 



TRUST. 49 

Except for love's sweet sake, 

A single day 
Shadowed along life's bitter way. 
When it is night 
We rest in this— He leadeth toward the light. 



TORRIGIANO TO HIS STATUE OF CHRIST. 

It will be remembered that Torrigiano, the celebrated Floren- 
tine sculptor, died, amid horrible tortures, at the hands of the 
Inquisitors, for the breaking of his exquisite statue of the Infant 
Christ. 

HAVE I shattered thee, O Beautiful! thou Christ- 
child pale and pure, 
Not broken thee, O Little-one ? I thought thou wouldst 

endure 
Down to the coming ages, and stand in all thy grace, 
In all thy power of loveliness in fame's most honored 

place, 
Breathing upon the distant air Torrigiano's name — 
Breathing with thy pure lips — rekindling his fame; — 
But all is lost ! 
Lost! Lost — he stands before a broken shrine; 
He bends above thee, Little-one ! Thine 
Is the favored part, 
Thy frozen, frozen heart 



TORRIGIANO TO HIS STATUE. 51 

Knows not the woe it is to throb, to beat so high — 
To throb — and die ! 

Oh, I have shattered thee, thou Fair, but passion 
nerved the blow ; 

They thought to win thee, Beautiful, but I have laid 
thee low ! 

Did they think to buy thee with their bags — their cop- 
per bags, in truth ? 

Their thirty ducats ? — they have learned far otherwise, 
forsooth. 

1 did not mean to desecrate the Name that thou didst 

bear — 
High Heaven, knowing all things, knows that I am 

guiltless there — 
I have stricken thee, O Beautiful, and jealous rage 

hath sworn 
To drink the blood of vengeance for thy wondrous 

beauty shorn : 
A little while and muffled feet will bear me from this 

cell— 



52 TORRIGIANO TO HIS STATUE. 

The tortures of the after hours, who shall there be to 

tell? 
They may part my flesh among them ! I have wounded 

not the Christ ! 
It was only thee, thou Little-one — thou the lost, the 

last ! 
May the hand that makes the marble stand out with 

life and nerve, 
May the hand that wields the chisel over every sleeping 

curve, 
Not sway the severing hammer, where in lingering love 

before 
It hath bent with fiery ardor— love that kindles never 

more ! 



INFLUENCES. 

THE wind's breath comes and goes : 
It blows 
Along the south, and frail and fair 
A heart is lifted to the wooing air — 
A little heart so true 
It would not come at all unless the south wind blew — 

And stands, held quite aloft, so still 
That none have known it for a heart at all, until, 
Just as the wind forgets, 
It shudders — vain regrets !— 
A myriad flowers shudder when winds blow east, 
But yet, the winds have never ceased 
To blow, both night and day — 
Blow, south, and east, and every way, 
And you can tell the anguish of their breath 
If you will spell the language of the fields. Both life 
and death 

Winds blow on every side. 



54 INFLUENCES. 



The rifted stems, brown, weird, and dried, 
Stand up before it, and, close by 
The shafts, so tender and so shy, 
That have but now just ventured forth, 
The winds shall sweep them from the north, 
And they will shudder, shrink, fade, die. 

With quiverings of life, or death, the winds go by. 
They may not know 

How much they do; they come and go, 

And maybe never know at all 

The truth, that no such breath can fall 
Quite idly. You and I 

Do many things : we cannot lie 

Inert as blades in painted sheath 

With all the panting earth beneath. 

We breathe, and kindle by each breath 

Some influence vowed to life and death, 
Just as the winds which blow 
On errands go. 



"I KNOW IN WHOM I HAVE BELIEVED." 

IF I but thought 
Christ kept my crowned one ; brought 
His crown, my cross, and all the tangled web of life, 
Joy-flushed, or paled with strife, 
Out from the treasure-house of God : 

If, as I trod 
With hands so empty reaching out to take 
The stone-cold tables written w ; th the laws to break 
My will against in my next step ; 
If 1 but thought my way was kept, 
Marked by its crosses and its times of light, 

Within God's sight, 
I would, transfixed with fear, .stand on the way 
Mute-lipped, frozen too still to pray, 
Frozen too still to go — 
But oh, I know 
The God in whom I have believed, 



56 IN WHOM I HA VE BELIEVED. 

Who first my breath conceived, 
Whose life, vibrating through infinitude, 
Quickens these humans, quickened me and holds 
My goings in his hands ; unfolds 
This new, strange winding in my way ; 
Darkens my day, 
Lifting my light so high 
That walking in the dark I cannot choose but toward 
the sky 
Reach nearer than before, and keep 
The steepest path. My crowned-one fell asleep. 

I take my first steps on alone and go ; 
Reach through the dark ; step onward, for I know 
He keeps my light — my little loved-one's face — 
So bright, so sinless, in the trysting-place 

Where we shall meet, 
That 1 can trust He will my way complete, 

Helping my feet tread high, 
Keeping them steady till the by and by. 



AUTUMN'S TIRED FLOWERS. 

THEIR tired eyes close. 
The days have been so long ; the red sun rose 
So soon, so fervent, red, 
The sweetest hearts of all, touched by his breath are 
dead. 

Poor hearts ! poor weary eyes ! 
The wings above, in sad surprise 

Bend down : sweep 
The languid lips they may not keep ; 
Droop, crimson-dyed, but slow. 
With songs so sad, so low, 
And they ? — they fall asleep, poor eyes : 
The sun-wooed dies. 

Above, the brown, sear leaves 
Shiver : warm breath deceives 



5 3 AUTUMN'S TIRED FLOWERS. 

More hearts than hearts of flowers, 
Blights in its warmest hours, 
And by and by 
Forgets the shivering heart it leaves to die. 



THE CHOSEN ONE. 

THE angel from the Throne 
One brow alone 
Touched with the mystic sign — 
Though two were there matched line for line, — 
Two faces, pure and fair. 
Pillowed so close, with intermingling hair 

Like threads of rumpled gold — 
And now the one sweet, silent face is cold ! 

One mother looked upon them both in love, 

And watched them sleep, and prayed the Heart abc 

To choose some sweet behest 
For these that slept upon her breast, 

Yet, when the angel came, 

And called one child by name, 

And let the spirit free — 



60 THE CHOSEN ONE. 

Bound by mortality, and sin, and woe, — 
How hard to take the gift and let the spirit go. 

One face alone, with strands of rumpled gold, 
Sleeps fitfully, where two of old 
Were pillowed side by side ; 

The Glorified 
Is free. A new, sweet tone 
Trembles amid the anthems round about the Throne, 
And, from its place, 
The chosen spirit sees Emmanuel's face. 



HIS TO LAY ASIDE. 

A LITTLE tool am 1 ; just one within His hand ; 
Just His to choose 
And His to use ; 
Shaped out at His command. 

If He should lay me down, perhaps I might be sad, 

And wonder why 

He put me by, 
And never more be glad. 

Yet I would surely know, whatever He might do- 
However choose 
His tools to use — 

H is love was strong and true. 



6<- HIS TO LAY ASIDE. 

Just looking in His face, although my heart might 
break, 

I could but know 

He loved me so, 
There could be no mistake. 



BLIGHTED. 

SHE was singing as he passed, 
Twining willows deft and fast ; 
Twining willows, singing low — 
Eyes of sunshine, cheeks aglow ; 
Did he then at last behold 
Eyes of light and locks of gold 
Matched to some Madonna old 
He had seen, an ideal fair, 
Mystic light on lip and hair ? — 
Andalusia's fairest maids 
He had scanned in woods and glades, 
Fairest maids from sea to sea, 
But none were fair of face as she. 
He wooed and won the little maid, 
And robed her in the rich brocade, 
And paid her court in regal hall. 



64 BLIGHTED. 

But sad her smile amid it all. 
For nurtured where the willows grew, 
And where the mountain violets blew, 
She faded as a flower which dies 
In sighing for its own blue skies, 



I 



"TYSIE" 

T was last night. She looked into my face ; 
She smiled. The unforgotten grace 
Swept round her as of old, 
Her locks of gold 
Burned in the light, 
And then I said, 
So joyously, she is not dead. 
Night deepened, and I turned, 
Breathless with sudden cry — 
Some whisper passed me by, 
And I could find 
No soul enshrined 
In its fair guise, 
Bewildering me with its pure eyes 
Where light, just as of old, had burned. 

And then I said 
The vision fair hath given me in a dream 



66 TVS IE. 



Light to carry onward, and I deem 
It no small gift — the vision of her face — 
Although, I always see, in every place, 
The beauty of a truer dream which is not dead, 



SACRIFICE. 

THE keynote of life's harmony is sacrifice. 
Not twice, or thrice, 
Beneath each sun will souls bow down 

To lay the crown 
Of will, or time, beneath strange feet, 
But many times, that life's chords may be sweet. 

Who sacrifices most 
Drinks deepest life's rich strain, counting no cost, 
But giving self on every side, 
Daily and hourly, sanctified 
But in the giving. 
Living 
Is but the bearing, the enduring, 
The clashing of the hammer ; the cutting, 

The straining of the strings, 
The growth of harmony's pure wings. 
Life is the tuning-time, complete 
Alone when every chord is sweet 



68 SA CR1FICE. 



Through sacrifice. No untried string 
Can music bring : 
No untried life 
Has triumphed, having passed the strife. 
True living 
Is learning all about the giving. 



FOOTPRINTS. 

THE white, the blue, the violet hearts of flowers ; 
Each prism flashing in the showers ; 
The dew — 
Each tiny drop — each atom of a tender hue 

Of all the mists of skies ; 
Each transient beautiful that is, yet dies, 
But gives itself in wordless sacrifice which is not lost. 
And we ? With wavering lips, crossed 
Now with laughter, then with sighs and cries, 
We lift inevitable sacrifice 
To Good or Evil, and create 
Here with our changeful steps, on God's estate, 
A nobler following after good, a better sphere, 
Or bring to birth more strength for evil. Here- 
Here, on this bright, sad world — both you and I 
Must leave our chosen, irradicable mark, and die. 
No life so low is given, but it may hold 



7° FOOTPRINTS. 



A benison to lips mute, parched or cold : 
No life so high but it may stoop to take 
The hand of Evil — stoop to wake 
Some sleeping thing debased which might have slept. 
Where we have stepped, 
Along life's path, the marks shall be 
Indelible to God, though man may never see. 



THE SLAUGHTERED BRAVE. 

AN armful of sweet flowers ! — he laughed to see 
So many on his arms for me, 

But held one up — 
One single, beautiful pure cup- 
Looking a moment, saddened at its grace, 

" But this," he said, and held it to my face ; 

" Stood up so brave and bright 
I could not bear to take its life ;'' — pure, frail, and 
' white, 
I took it in my hand, and for his sake 
Who begged me just a sketch to make 
Of its sweet face, I drew a vine, 
And sketched this little flower of mine. 
And now when all the flowers are dead, 
And no more flowers can come instead 
In such dear hands, I turn to see 
The little flower he brought to me, 



7 2 THE SLAUGHTERED BRAVE. 

And see, beside, his saddened face, 
And hear, just standing in his place, 
The words he sighed so low and grave 
Because his hand had slain the brave. 



T 



PATIENCE WITH THE LOVE. 

HEY are such little feet : 

They have gone such a tiny way to meet 
The years which are required to break 
Their steps to evenness, and make 
Them go 
More sure and slow. 



They are such little hands : 
Be kind. Things are so new and Life but stands 
A step beyond the doorway. All around 

New day has found 
Such tempting things to shine upon, and so 
The hands are tempted hard, you know. 
They are such new, young lives : 
Surely their newness shrives 
Them well of many sins : they see so much 



74 PA T1ENCE WITH THE LOVE. 



That, being immortal, they would touch ; 
If they would reach 
We must not chide but teach. 
They are such fond, dear eyes 

That widen to surprise 
At every turn ; they are so often held 
To suns or showers — showers soon dispelled 

By looking in our face — 
Love asks for such, much grace. 

They are such fair, frail gifts ; 

Uncertain as the rifts 
Of light that lie along the sky — 
They may not be here by and by — 

Give them not love, but more above 

And harder — patience with the love. 



HIS THOUGHTS. 

TH ERE was a time 
When no wild thyme 
Grew anywhere ; 
When no sweet flower 
Held up its face toward the shower- 
When rocks were bare. 

Who thought first of the thyme ; 
Of all the stars that shine 

Amid the grass- 
White stars, and pink, and blue, 
And yellow flower-stars too 

On every pass ? 

Who could have ever thought , 
Or ever, ever brought 
Such bright, fair things 



76 HIS THOUGHTS. 



To grow beneath our feet 

Pure bells and cups so sweet 

Fairer than bird's bright wings ? 

Our Father planned them out : 
Each one He thought about, 

And as they grow, 
We see His thought anew — 
The form He chose, the hue — 
Though strown so low. 

And if, however sad, 
We grow more glad 
When flower-cups lie 
Beneath our feet, it is because we see 
His thought for you and me 
In going by. 



w 



NOT BY MISTAKE. 

HAT could our love have done ? We tried 

To hold her fast : cried 

To the tender Hand 

That we might understand 

The right way, day by day — 

That she might stay. 

What could our love have tried ? 
What secret, mystified, 
Could we have found for her dear sake ? 
Hearts break ; 
Light dies ; life's tenderest breath 
Grows cold upon her lips, but death 
Chose her for Love's sweet sake ; 
Not by mistake. 



78 NOT BY MISTAKE. 

Perhaps if we could see 
Where she dreams now of you and me ; 
Look once upon her face, 
We might be glad such grace 
Was shown our glorified — 
Be satisfied. 



UNWRITTEN LANGUAGE 

NOW I know 
That leaves have voices, very low 

And soft and tender, 
And the grasses, growing under, 
Whisper too, and call each other, 
Reeds that lean on one another, 
Mosses too, and dock, and cresses, 
Every one of these confesses 
Something — I can never tell you 

What; but mellow 
Are the voices, very gentle, 
Murmurs only accidental, 
When they earnest grow, or sadden 
To a wailing ; laugh, or gladden 
To a song — why, I can hear them, 
Listening closer to be near them, 
Listening at the garden border, 



80 UNWRITTEN LANGUAGE. 

At the hillside, growing broader ; 

In the forest or the fallow, 

By the brook's heart reed and sallow : 

Hear them ?— why they wail and whisper, 

Sing, and when the leaves grow crisper 

Toward the autumn, you shall tell me 

What they say, if you can spell me 

Any words : they speak so gently, 

Though I listen so intently, 

I can scarcely tell a word 

Of all the chatter I have heard. 



WHAT CAN IT MATTER. 



H 



E goes before. 
How could we ask for more 
Than His right hand to hold the briars aside ; 
To make the pathway wide 
Or narrow for the feet ; 
To lead through dust and heat ? 

If we be blind : 
If we could never find 
The way alone ; 
And do not know the tone 
Of all the world's strange voices, but must weep, 
And wake, and fall asleep, 
And keep along the way but scarcely know 
A bit about the reason why these things are so, 
What can it matter, since just on ahead 
A Hand is held to us— a Hand once red ? 



A CHILD'S PLEA FOR A LITTLE LIFE. 

BE pitiful. That little stem 
Is such a fair, frail thing. Condemn 
It to the winds that beat — 
The winds will bind its winding-sheet, 

And it will go 
So dead, so cold, beneath the snow. 

It seems to hold its pale leaves up 
Toward thy face. This frozen cup, 

Death-mixed, drips 
Coldly on such fragile lips ; 

They would sink back 
So doomed ; so dead ; so black. 

It trembles where it stands : 
Quivers in reaching up its hands : 



A CHILD'S PLEA FOR A LITTLE LIFE. 83 

Bends to the winds. To-night, 
When all thy hearth is bright, 

Its lips will drink 
The frost breath— stay and think. 

Be pitiful. Stoop down 
Toward this little life. So brown 
Will be the earth just here, you will be sad, 
When all the spring is glad, 

Because no more 
The bright face smiles which smiled before. 



HOUR BY HOUR. 

ONE single day- 
Is not so much to look upon. There is some way 
Of passing hours of such a limit. We can face 
A single day ; but place 
Too many days before sad eyes — 
Too many days for smothered sighs — 
And we lose heart 
Just at the start. 
Years really are not long, nor lives — 
The longest which survives — 
And yet, to look across 
A future we must tread bowed by a sense of loss, 
Bearing some burden weighing down so low 
That we can scarcely go 
One step ahead, this is so hard, 
So stern a view to face, unstarred, 



HOUR BY HOUR. 85 

Untouched by light, so masked with dread. 
If we would take a step ahead, 
Be brave and keep 
The feet quite steady ; feel the breath of life sweep 
Ever on our face again. 
We must not look across — looking in vain — 
But downward to the next close step, 

And up. Eyes which have wept 
Must look a little way, not far. 
God broke our years to hours and days, that hour by 
hour, 

And day by day, 
Just going on a little way, 
We might be able, all along, 
To keep quite strong. 
Should all the weight of life 
Be laid across our shoulders, and the future, rife 
With woe and struggle, meet us face to face 
At just one place, 
We could not go ; 
Our feet would stop, and so 
God lays a little on us every day, 



86 HOUR BY HOUR. 

And never, I believe, on all the way 
Will burdens bear so deep, 
Or pathways lie so steep, 
But we can go, if, by God's power, 
We only bear the burden of the hour, 



THE SKEIN WE WIND. 



I 



F you and I to-day 
Should stop, and lay 
Our life-work down, and let our hands fall where they 
will, 

Fall down to lie quite still; 
And if some other hand should come, and stoop to find 

The threads we carried, so that it could wind, 
Beginning where we stopped ; if it should come to keep 
Our life-work going, seek 
To carry on the good design 
Distinctively made yours or mine,. 
What would it find ? 
Some work we must be doing, true or false : 
Some threads we wind : some purpose so exalts 
Itself that we look up to it, or down 
As to a crown 
To bow before, and we weave threads 



88 THE SKEIN WE WIND. 

Of different lengths and thickness, some mere shreds, 
And wind them round 
Till all the skein of life is bound ; 
Sometimes forgetting at the task 
To ask 
The value of the threads, or choose 

Strong stuff to use. 
No hand but winds some thread — 
It cannot stand quite still till it is dead — 

It winds and spins some little skein : 
God made each hand for work. Not toil-stain 

Is required, but every hand 
Spins, though but ropes of sand. 

If Love should come, 
Stooping above, when we are done, 
To find bright threads 
That we have held, that it may spin them longer, find 
but shreds 
That break when touched, how cold. 
Sad, shivering, portionless, the hands will hold 
The broken strands, and know 
Fresh cause for woe. 



TO-MORROW'S NEWS. 



T 



'HERE will be news to-morrow : 
News of sorrow 
Maybe ; hard, and sharp, and cutting; 
Shutting 
Off a breath of sweetness; 
Life's completeness 
Shattering further : 
Clashing hard on one another 
Hope and faith; but God will choose 
The wisest news. 
If I to-night 
Were given to write, 
By my own will, the words to shape 
To-morrow's course, sleep would escape 
Me, and the wings 
Of my light heart be bound. God ordereth things. 
And I but pray: 



9© TO-MORROW'S NEWS. 

Shape Thou my destiny, 
And use me to Thy will, 
Or, let me lie quite still 
Within Thy hand. The news 
Will be as God shall choose. 



RECOMPENSE. 

WE are quite sure 
That He will give them back— bright, pure, and 
beautiful — 

We know He will but keep 
Our own and His until we fall asleep. 

We know He does not mean 
To break the strands reaching between 
The Here and There. 
He does not mean — though heaven be fair — 
To change the spirits entering there, that they forget 
The eyes upraised and wet, 
The lips too still for prayer, 
The mute despair. 
He will not take 
The spirits which He gave, and make 

The glorified so new 
That they are lost to me and you. 
I do believe 



92 RECOMPENSE. 



They will receive 
Us — you and me — and be so glad 
To meet us, that when most I would grow sad 
I just begin to think about that gladness, 

And the day 
When they shall tell us all about the way 

That they have learned to go — 
Heaven's pathways show. 

My lost, my own, and I 

Shall have so much to see together by and by. 
I do believe that just the same sweet face, 
But glorified, is waiting in the place 

Where we shall meet, if only I 
Am counted worthy in that by and by. 
I do believe that God will give a sweet surprise 
To tear-stained, saddened eyes, 
And that his heaven will be 
Most glad, most tided through with joy for you and me, 
As we have suffered most. God never made 
Spirit for spirit, answering shade for shade, 

And placed them side by side — 



RECOMPENSE. n 



So wrought in one, though separate, mystified— 
And meant to break 
The quivering threads between. When we shall wake, 
1 am quite sure, we will be very glad 
That for a little while we were so sad. 



WHY MOTHER IS PROUD* 

LOOK in his face, look in his eyes — 
Roguish, and blue, and terribly wise — 
Roguish and blue, but quickest to see 
When mother comes in as tired as can be ; 
Quickest to find her the nicest old chair ; 
Quickest to get to the top of the stair ; 
Quickest to see that a kiss on her cheek 
Would help her far more than to chatter— to speak- 
Look in his face, and guess, if you can, 
Why mother is proud of her little man. 

The mother is proud— I will tell you this ; 
You can see it yourself in her tender kiss, 
But why ? Well, of all her dears 
There is scarcely one who ever hears 



WHY MOTHER IS PROUD. 95 

The moment she speaks, and jumps to see 
What her want or her wish might be : 
Scarcely one. They all forget, 
Or are not in the notion to go quite yet ; 
But this she knows, if her boy is near, 
There is somebody certain to want to hear. 

Mother is proud, and she holds him fast, 
And kisses him first and kisses him last ; 
And he holds her hand and looks in her face, 
And hunts for her spool which is out of its place, 
And proves that he loves her whenever he can: 
Thai is why she is proud of her little man. 



PERHAPS. 

WHY will the flowers come back- 
Winding all along the track, 
Smiling up toward the sun 
Just as they have always done, 

Though he cannot, cannot come ? 
How can they bear to smile 
In such a little while ; 
Looking up so glad, so gay ? 
I wish them far away, 

These flowers that love the sun. 

Why will the birds sing so— 
Sing, going to and fro, 
Sing just as if his face, 
Not missing from its place, 

Was held to them this spring ? 



PERU A PS. g? 



Why will they flutter by, 
As friendly and as shy, 
As glad, it seems to me, 
As when he held his breath to see 
The quivering of each wing ? 

Why will the sun forget ; 
Why will it rise and set 
In all its gorgeous dyes ? 
It will not sacrifice 

A single ray, but bright- 
It is as bright and glad 
As though I were not sad, 
As though his eyes upheld, 
Yet all the mystery spelled— 
The legends of the light. 

Oh, heartless sun and flowers ! 
Oh, heartless birds ! The hours 
Are harder, are more sad, 
Because they are so glad ; 



98 PERHA PS. 

And yet, perhaps, who knows ? 
If I could see his face 

In that dear far-off place, 

I would be glad as they, 

All through the livelong day, 

Because God loved, and chose. 



COULD LOVE REBEL? 

LOVE clasped her object close 
Bent over it ; chose 
Woof of costly looms to wrap about ; 
Held her own arms out 
Before it and around ; 
Consented to be bound ; 
Prayed while it slept ; 
And yet — it wept. 

Love dreamed but of the way 
To cherish each new day 
More sacredly her gift, 
And touched, with finger swift, 
A thousand chords, to wake, 
Just for its sake. 
New rhythms, but wondering mystified, 



COULD LOVE REBEL. 



It turned to her, with eyes more wide, 
Touched by a human woe ; swept 
By a breath Love could not keep away, it wept. 
Love suddenly grew blind, 
She could not find 
The lips to breathe against, 
The eyes which had commenced 
To look beyond our own; 
The light which shone, 
As light will sometimes shine 
About some presence, hallowed as a shrine ; 
She could not find 
Small, frightened, fondling hands : v> ind 
Her arms close about a little heart wounded cr glad, 
Or just a trifle sad : 
She had no child 
To watch, and wake above — and yet it smiled, 
Trying its new, free wings, that bitter night, 
Along God's upper light, 
Forgetting, as its free wings swept, 
That it had Wept. 



COULD LOVE REBEL. 



Love could not see it face. 

She could not trace 
The flight of its fair wings ; 

Nor see the things 
It smiled to look upon ; nor hold 
Her hands in benediction, as of old : 
Nor keep 
Her arms about, fearing some breath might sweep 
Too rudely and too near ; 
She had no cause for fear ! 
But, though alone, 
Transfixed in grief as carved stone, 
Could she rebel, or cry, 
Knowing that terrors sweeping by, 
Anguish pale-faced, and woe 
Which might invade her arms, could never go 
So high, 
So near the sky, 
So near to those whom God doth keep, 
That they should weep ? 



LET THEM BE GLAD. 

TH EY are not kind : 
Their words find 
Such hard syllables to dwell upon ; they see 
Such bitter sentences, and cannot free 

The spelling, as they read, 
From crooked letters, which, being interpreted, 

Would mean but prejudice. They spell, 
Forgetting that God's light would serve them well 
In such strange reading; 
Proceeding 
With truth's lips to read aright — 
Not putting dark for light. 

They are not just. 
But put aside their littleness, and trust 
To be content in simply passing by 
Their hardness : forget the reason why 



LET THEM BE GLAD. 103 



Days are more sad. 
Let them be glad, 
If they can find a way, 
For in some far-off day 
What will it matter if they read aright, 
Or turned the writing from the light ? 



UNIFORM IN STYLE AND PRICE, IN 
WHITE, STOKES, & ALLEN'S SERIES OF 
RELIGIOUS VOLUMES, ARE : 

MAKE THY WAY MINE, by George 

Kli)igle. 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, by John 

Bun van. 
RELIGIOUS POEMS, edited by C. E. 

Alexander. 
THE IMITATION OF CHRIST, by 

Thomas d Kempis. 



Others in preparation. 

Each one volume, i6mo, on very fine 
laid paper, wide margins. 

Pale-brown cloth, appropriate or- 
namentation in silver and gold, 
gilt top $1.00 

Photo-etching style, with photo- 
etching after some famous relig- 
ious painting, on parchment- 
paper cover . . . . i oo 

Half-calf, gilt top . . . 2 oo 

Limp, pocket-book calf, red-under- 
gold edges . . . . 3 00 

Tree-calf, gilt edges . . 3 50 







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